The dark blue curtains fall
Bespangled with their shining jewels
Twinkling with their own shine
And the softer house light comes up
Strangely swiftly against how languidly the
Single stage-light dims after shining
Hot upon the actors making their
Exits and their entrances
Playing each their parts
Improvising and extemporizing
Because there is hardly any script to
Go off of
Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series here.
The succeeding chapter, “Chade’s Tower,” begins with comments from an in-milieu source regarding the formation of the Hetgurd, an alliance of Out Island holdings meant to unify them Out Islands against attack and to normalize trade relations. It turns to track Fitz’s return to Buckkeep at Chade’s summons, and to describe Buckkeep itself. Fitz notes the many changes that have occurred in his boyhood home as he returns in disguise to it.
When, under darkness, Fitz returns to Buckkeep Castle itself, the Fool greets him, assigning him a role as servant to Lord Golden, the latter his own role. The Fool rehearses some of the needed reasoning, emphasizing to Fitz the seriousness of the masquerade they must both perform, and takes him in. Fitz marvels at yet more changes and is afflicted by nostalgia as he progresses behind Lord Golden to the latter’s sumptuous quarters. Said quarters have a small room for Fitz’s use as Tom Badgerlock, one which offers passage to Chade’s secret chambers.
After being “dismissed” by Lord Golden and welcomed back by the Fool, Fitz proceeds to meet with Chade, once again taken by nostalgia as he moves along the network of hidden passages. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, and while Fitz eats, Chade notes the current dilemma: the heir to the Six Duchies, Prince Dutiful, is missing. He is also rumored to wield the Wit magic, with all the attendant problems thereupon. Chade also notes the activities of the Piebalds and their social campaigns. He further muses on the political instability at large in the Six Duchies, noting that Dutiful’s absence or transformation into the kind of being Fitz was after returning from death would end the kingdom.
Matters are further complicated by the impending marital alliance with the Out Islands via the Hetgurd, and Fitz realizes that his old mentor’s age is beginning to tell upon him as Chade relates more of the prevailing situation to him. Chade asserts that Fitz’s Skill can prevail in retrieving the prince, despite his protestations, and, after a few choice questions and comments, he accepts the charge to retrieve the prince, and he begins to be briefed on what he needs to know.
A couple of things prompt my attention. For one, I’ve often noted the parallels to addiction and what I’ve seen of others’ experience with it while I was working at the substance abuse treatment center; Hobb flatly links the two in Fitz’s musing that “A surge of exhilaration came with that thought [that he could Skill well]. It was probably, I told myself viciously, much the same as what a drunk felt on discovering a forgotten bottle beneath the bed.” So that puts that out there; those more adept in addiction studies than I–I administered, I did not provide treatment–could doubtlessly say more on the topic than I ought to attempt.
A second is the nostalgia that afflicts Fitz as he returns to Buckkeep. Again, I find myself reading affectively, if perhaps at some remove. I did not expect that I would ever live in Kerrville again after moving off to New York City late in my graduate studies; while I did not end things there as a dead man, I did not end them well, and I certainly felt some guilt at moving back to the city in 2016. Yet even with that, I found myself marveling at the changes to things no less than the ways in which things had remained as I had left them. It was a strange tension that has since subsided; years living in the place made it familiar again, and now, I no longer live there again. But I remember it all too well, and I find myself feeling for Fitz again–which is probably as I am meant to do, as far as purpose can be trusted.
Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series here.
The next chapter, “A Sword and a Summons,” starts with FitzChivalry’s written musings on the myth that spurred Verity to head into the mountains and carve his dragon. It turns thence to gloss over the next days, with Fitz musing on the changes in his outlook and perspective. The Fool continues to carve on the wooden features of Fitz’s cottage, and Nighteyes continues to be largely quiet and still, his age clearer than previously. They continue together for a time, until the Fool declares one evening that he must leave on the morrow. Fitz protests, but the Fool notes the need–and his desire to remain.
At an off-hand comment from Fitz, the Fool is startled and reveals more of his own background and experience–something he does not do often. He notes that another had been thought to be the White Prophet that he knows himself to be, and that that other, the Pale Woman, had been part of the driving impetus behind the Red Ship War.
When, on the next day, the Fool makes to depart, Nighteyes notes that they should accompany him; Fitz demurs in favor of waiting for Hap, although he chafes at it. The Fool leaves in peace and friendship, and Fitz turns reluctantly to the chores of the day. Days pass, and weeks, and Hap returns, having fared poorly in his attempt to earn his own apprentice fee; he frets about prospects as he hears the news Fitz shares of Jinna’s visit and the Fool’s. Fitz offers to borrow the money, which surprises and elates Hap; Nighteyes puts in archly, and Hap notes that the sooner they go to Buckkeep, the better off they’ll be.
Fitz reluctantly agrees and makes preparations for the return to Buckkeep. His clothes are hardly fit, and the same is true of his fighting instincts, but he still possesses both, as well as a sword given him by Verity. He is about to depart for Buckkeep when a messenger arrives, bearing a scroll emblazoned with Fitz’s old emblem. It is a summons from Chade, and Fitz gives directions for a departure in haste rather than the leisurely trip he had planned.
I note with some happiness the commentary at the beginning of the chapter, in which Fitz waxes poetic about cultures having myths of returning heroes from days past. As a scholar of Arthurian literature, still, and of Malory, still, I am attuned to such references, as I’ve demonstrated. I note, though, on this rereading that Fitz himself seems to fit the criteria, if only as loosely as he fits being a hero. Coming out of a quiet, clandestine retirement after years away may not be a return from Avalon, but it is a figure from a generation ago returning to activity–and quite a bit of it, as will become clear.
A while back, I opined about an assignment sequence I regret not offering when I was teaching college-level writing. At the time, I noted that there were reasons I was thinking about the assignment sequence again, but I declined to go into them; I can safely note now that I had been putting in for teaching positions in anticipation of my wife’s promotion and our relocation, one of which worked out, if not entirely expectedly. And, as it happens, some of the classes I am teaching–on-level high-school senior English, aimed at students not going straight into college–might actually lend themselves to something like that regretted-because-never-given assignment sequence.
Might.
I am tempted to try it, certainly, for all the reasons I noted earlier; it would be a coherent assignment sequence, and it would allow students practice in the kinds of workplace writing they are apt to encounter in the world outside college. (The job postings I still receive frequently call for high-school graduates and scads of report-writing, among others.) It would also be a different kind of engagement for the students, many of whom chafe at trudging through textbooks’ often-tepid literary selections and milquetoast interpretations of the same. (I don’t blame them, even if I am often frustrated by their intransigence.) And, yes, it would add to my portfolio, which, now that I am teaching again, would be a damned fine thing.
But.
I am teaching in a Texas Hill Country town, and not a large one. (As I write this, Burnet’s still under 10,000 people.) And while not all the stereotypes of such places are true, a fair number of them are; I anticipate that I’d have a fair amount of resistance from some quarters–and their parents. Some folks have never gotten over the Satanic panic, for example, and my own predilections are not likely to help that…
If I retool–maybe not for this year, but possibly for next?–I could make it an option, certainly; as long as it’s an option and not a requirement, I think I can get some grace from my administration. (So far, they’ve treated me well, and I don’t want to abuse that.) But how much will be extended…that’s always a question, and I’ve been…spoken to…about things before.
I guess I’ll have to give it some more thought.
Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series here.
The following chapter, “Dead Man’s Regrets,” starts with an in-milieu musing on the decline of instruction in the Skill in the Six Duchies in the generations leading up to King Shrewd and the Red Ships War. It turns to Fitz waking in the night, concerned with the Fool’s horse, Malta. He rises to bring her in, finds her without difficulty, and takes his time in leading her back to shelter. He reaches out with and muses on his Wit-sense, considering his communion with the broader world as he does so.
As he reaches out, he becomes aware of another Wit-communion, one shared between a boy and a cat. He sets the images aside, takes Malta back in, and retires again for the night.
The next morning, Fitz wakes refreshed; Nighteyes continues to rest and heal, and the Fool attends to some morning chores, marking Fitz’s appearance. They confer about Fitz’s life and circumstances, Fitz musing on the absent Hap and the Fool grousing about Starling, whom he dislikes. He lapses into his fey prophetic mood, and Fitz busies himself with tasks that bring him pleasure. So does the Fool, and Fitz finds himself waxing pensive again as he is prompted to resume his accounts.
His travels took him and Nighteyes to Bingtown and the Rain Wild River, and his Skilling took him to Burrich and Molly and Nettle. Driven by what he sees, he rushes to them, finding them well but older when he arrives, and stopping short of presenting himself to them. He also balks at considering Dutiful, who is the son of his body. The Fool prods him some more, and he begrudgingly acknowledges possibilities before they begin to make their way in to dinner.
I note with some interest that Fitz ascribes a sentient Wit-sense even to some of the trees around him. In that, I read an echo of the Tolkien whom Hobb is on record as prizing. The Prince of Fantasists’ fascination with and appreciation for trees is amply attested by many scholars of far more skill and erudition than I–Luke Shelton among them; for Hobb to point out the Wit-presence of a solid tree, when throughout the previous novels she had not done so, stands out, and the marked occasion invites attention. But it is not to be wondered at that an English-language fantasy author would echo Tolkien; there is a reason the Tales after Tolkien Society has its name, after all…
Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series here.
The next chapter, “Old Blood,” begins with a letter from Burrich to his counterpart in a lesser court, reporting on a particular charge of his. It pivots thence to Fitz, the Fool, and Nighteyes reaching Fitz’s cabin, exhausted by their efforts and wracked by the pain of Skilling. Nighteyes falls swiftly asleep; Fitz prepares doses of elfbark, availing himself of it before the preparations begin. As the two dose themselves with the plant, Fitz resumes his account of his and Nighteyes’s travels after the Mountain Kingdom, relating their experience with Black Rolf and Holly among the Old Blood community they had encountered previously.
The community is glossed, and Fitz emphasizes his difficulties in keeping hidden among them what he needed–still needs–to keep hidden about himself and his past. That Black Rolf and Holly know his identity, he realizes, but he also notes that they helped maintain his ruse with the others. Fitz and the Fool eat as the former continues to talk about his experiences. He notes that his utter ignorance of Old Blood ways and customs grated on Rolf, as well as disturbing many others in the community; Fitz also muses on Burrich’s passive use of the Wit to oversee his own use of it in his childhood. He continues relating his difficult acculturation to Old Blood ways as he rehearses what he learned from the experience.
Among the things he sees is a joined pair, Delayna and Parela, a Wit-bonded woman and deer. The woman had died and had attached herself to the deer, denying either of them a full life in an attempt to preserve herself. Fitz notes his unease with seeing such a thing and with having done such a thing himself, although he notes that he does not fully understand the choice to do such a thing. And he returns to his narration around the discomfort of that consideration.
Fitz notes that the Old Blood community knowing his identity, as seemed certain, was a threat to him, and he and Nighteyes moved on when they could. The depressing effects of the elfbark begin to be felt, and conversation continues into the night, with the Fool turning to self-doubt and lamentation.
Given the continuing reading of the Wit as metaphor for homosexuality, I have to wonder at parallels with gay culture, though I am far from an expert in that culture; I wonder only, knowing I do not know enough to be able to make any meaningful comment about those parallels. Given the specifically communicative nature of the Wit, I also find myself wondering at parallels with interactions with and among Deaf communities–although I know with them, too, I do not know enough to make any meaningful comments. I can only hope that those among my friends and readers who are members of or more closely aligned with those communities than I will help redeem my ignorance in such things.
I do know, though, that the addictive perils of the elfbark come up once again, and that matters do not seem to be eased with the addition of alcohol to the night’s libations. It’s the kind of thing I saw no few times while I was working at the substance abuse treatment center, people trying to use one drug to blunt the effects of another, itself taken despite its known peril and effects because it works to address pain endured in the process of keeping body and soul together. I recall feeling pity for Fitz before; knowing what I know now, I feel it more.
I returned to the classroom last week, coming in a couple of weeks after school got started and falling into a week more abbreviated than had been expected; Labor Day, I knew was coming, but the closures on Tuesday and Wednesday to get some things done were…surprising. I put them to as much good use as I could, however, and, among others, drafted another example of an exercise I’ve used for years: a riddle quiz.
The quizzes follow a simple format. Students are presented with the text of a riddle into which deviations from “standard” orthography (yes, I am aware the phrase sounds tautological; it’s not, as standards vary among communities and smaller groups) are embedded. They are then asked to identify / adjust those deviations, answer the riddle, and explain from the text why the answer they give is an appropriate answer. Now, I’ve published on the topic of the assignment before. And, again, I’ve used it in my classes for years, both as an in-class minor assignment and, with some small adjustment, exam material. I had great success with it at several of the colleges and universities where I taught, even when the students were not necessarily academically prepared, and even when English was not the students’ first, second, third, or even fourth language. As such, I had reason to believe that it’d go over reasonably well with students at high school–which seemed a good thing, since I had to get materials ready in a hurry, and I have a lot of riddles ready to go.
Accordingly, I gave a riddle quiz to my students on the first day I met them. And it caused some consternation–but I expected that; new assignments always do the first time they come out. I expected, too, that the students would get hung up on getting the “right” answer, rather than working on the proofreading and the explanations; years of experience let me know that it would be so, but that the students would eventually tumble to the fact, openly and repeatedly stated in class that I don’t care about the answer, but about how the answer is explained from the text. It is, after all, the core act of English studies to look at a text, interpret the text, and explain how the text generates that interpretation. What I did not expect, however, is that the exercise would baffle my colleagues–yet it did, as they indicated to me. Given that, and given a somewhat belated review of some of the documentation I ought to have looked at sooner–had I but Marvell’s world enough and time!–I figured out that I’d overshot a bit, and I made adjustments to the grading on that particular assignment.
I’m still going to give riddle quizzes in the future, and I’ll be explaining to students the adjustment to the grading made on the first such quiz. The reminder that I have a lot yet to learn is a useful one; I hope, however, that I don’t need to repeat the lesson too often.
Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series here.
The next chapter, “Heart of a Wolf,” begins with an in-milieu discussion of the Old Blood from Badgerlock’s “Old Blood Tales” before moving on to Fitz relating waking the next morning, taking in what seems to him a more vivid world. He regards himself, realizing he has been disguising himself from the world, and he and Nighteyes decide to discuss more of their past travels and experiences with the Fool. The wolf runs off, and Fitz returns to his cottage, its chores, and breakfast with the Fool.
Fitz and the Fool confer about the former’s arrival at the cottage and the nearby ruined town of Forge. Talk turns to the work of Queen Kettricken to secure peace with the Outislands who had raided and ravaged the Six Duchies years before via a marriage of her son, Prince Dutiful, to a narcheska–“A sort of princess,” as the Fool relates, or “At the very least, a daughter of some powerful noble”–from that region. As they go on, Fitz feels pain from Nighteyes and rushes off to aid him, the Fool following. Fitz finds the wolf choking on fish and frees the obstruction, only to feel pain emerging in the wolf’s body from another source. Failing to reach the wolf with the Wit, he Skills into him, becoming suddenly and strangely aware of the wolf and compelling the old animal’s body to work. The wolf protests, and Fitz has trouble returning to his body again, struggling to do so and eventually succeeding with some help from the Fool. The experience upsets all three, and it takes some time for them all to begin recovering from the inadvertent hurts inflicted upon one another. Raggedly, slowly, they three return to Fitz’s cabin.
The present chapter raises an important point regarding consent for medical attention–even lifesaving medical attention. Both Fitz and the Fool plunge recklessly into another to save their life; Fitz delves into Nighteyes, and the Fool into Fitz. Both who receive the treatment resent it, even as they recognize it saved them to receive it. The Fool claims a higher purpose, needing Fitz to effect positive change in the world; Fitz is, frankly, selfish, although a kind of selfish that evokes some sympathy. After all, even a beloved pet commands no small devotion, and Nighteyes is more than a pet to Fitz; the two are more a hybrid being than two separate entities, and it makes sense for people to try to save parts of themselves as well as those whom they love. Even so, the acts do deprive those who receive them of some of their agency, making for some complicated ethical implications and calling for some deeper thinking. As good reading should.
Read the previous entry in the series here.
Read the next entry in the series here.
A chapter titled “The Quiet Years” follows, opening with a reminiscence from Fitz about his birth and upbringing, his efforts at creating a coherent history of his nation. He follows by glossing over the next days with the Fool, who seems to seamlessly reintegrate himself into Fitz’s and Nighteyes’s lives. At length, they exchange more reports of their time apart, Fitz relating his life since the Fool left him at the dragon garden in bits and pieces, keeping himself from relating some of his deeds and losses. He does, however, dwell upon having visited Verity-as-Dragon, as well as a place where he saw a vision surrounding the Fool.
The Fool presents the crown worn in the vision and places it upon his head. Nothing happens, surprising both of them. Fatigue and drink overtake them, and Fitz retires for the evening.
I am taken by the reminiscence with which the chapter opens. I’ve noted before the Asimovian move of grounding chapters in in-milieu reference materials, something I appreciate, being a scholar prone to grounding my own work in reference materials from my own milieu no less than a long-time reader of the Good Doctor. Accordingly, the device attracts my attention readily, and I am all too happy to pay that coin. And in the present case, the opening passage is particularly compelling, the piecing-together of disparate and not always complete sources being something with which, as a medievalist, I am familiar. Similarly the concern about possibly perpetuating the errors of others–intended or inadvertent–is one with which I struggle; I work from sources, cited and remembered and internalized to the extent that I do not always know where they end and I begin anymore, and like all things human, they are subject to error and to being superseded, to having their mistakes and failings pushed forward by my work and made, in part, my own.
Too, there is the metaphor at the end: “A child sees the acorn of his daily life, but a man looks back on the oak.” Aside from the somewhat problematic nature of gendering–Hobb is on record as affirming her continued use of the masculine as the default neutral, a practice with which I disagree, and I am far from alone in it–there is a lot to unpack. It is, of course, inexact; a child and an acorn are not at the same stages in their respective developments, for one thing. And, as a Texan, I am aware of many uses of good oak wood; it makes for tasty smoked foods, among others. Too, an oak is more prone to break than to bend, even if it can endure a damned lot before it does; I have to wonder, as I think on it some more to write this, if that doesn’t actually justify the masculine pronoun, an unwillingness to adapt being often taken as a hallmark of toxic masculinity. It’ll bear more consideration, I think.
And, yes, this ties in. It’s the same crown.
It is no secret at this point, as this and this make clear, that I have returned to classroom teaching. I’m still considering how to go about the work again, as I am aware that what I did in the college classroom is not always appropriate for a high school classroom. (Some of it wasn’t appropriate for a college classroom, either, really.) I can’t just translate it directly over, so I have to review practices individually to determine what will work as is, what will work with modifications, and what has to be dropped entirely. At least for now.
One of the things I did while I was teaching college was post class reports in this webspace or its predecessor. I don’t think I’ll be doing that with the high school classes. There’re a few reasons. One is that I think I need to keep some separation between this space, which will follow me if I move again, and my classroom-bound teaching. I mean, yes, I’ll draft materials here that I use there, but direct linking…is probably not advisable.
Another reason is the simple one of overload. I’ll be teaching seven classes this year. It’s a lot. I’ll have all the grading to do, too. Consequently, a lot of my mental energy will be taken up with working on, well, work; it won’t leave quite as much as I would like for classroom reports to populate to this space.
And there is this, too: the school website. I’ll be teaching with resources, and I’ll be putting things into those resources as much as anything else. There may be copies elsewhere–here–that get used as resources for other things, but there’s only so much duplication I can stand to make happen. The class reports for the daily class meetings will be a casualty of that.
I do still mean to compose end-of-year reports, though. Those, I should be able to do…
Elliott RWI 